Webb's Posse (27 page)

“I'd like to try reasoning with them first,” said Dahl. “If nothing else, it'll give the deputy a chance to see it's us before the shooting starts.”

“That might be a good idea,” said Will Summers. “Got any tricks we might use this time?”

“Not this time,” said Dahl, lifting his pistol from his holster, checking it and spinning the cylinder down his shirtsleeve. “I'm all out of tricks.”

Watching how slickly and effortlessly Sherman Dahl handled the big pistol, Summers offered a thin smile and said, “I can't help wondering about you, schoolmaster. You sure have seemed right at home through all this.”

“I learned a long time ago to take this life as it comes to me, Summers,” said Dahl. “There's nothing special about it. I just refuse to let things rattle me.” He returned Summers' smile. “I think it amuses you to watch a man get rattled. You're an observer of human nature, whether you realize it or not.”

“Oh? Then thanks for telling me,” Summers replied. “Suppose that's something that'll help me out once we get down there and tangle horns with the
Federales
?”

“I don't know, but it certainly can't hurt,” said Dahl, spinning his pistol expertly back into his holster.

As Summers and Dahl talked, Teasdale swung the field lens across the flatlands to a rising drift of dust on the horizon. He saw the riders come into sight, their horses looking tired and dirt-streaked, moving slow. “Here come the Peltrys now.” He lowered the
lens from his eye and handed it to Will Summers. “I've got a feeling this could turn into a real busy day before we know it.”

“I've got that same feeling,” said Sherman Dahl. He stood up and began disassembling the Gatling gun from its stand.

In a dry creek bed that snaked three miles across the flatlands, Monk Dupre and Abner Webb staggered along in front of the six mounted
Federales.
After an hour of rough walking, the creek bed narrowed to a rocky halt where thorny brush and cactus grew too thick to penetrate. Struggling up the side of the sandy bank to the trail, Abner Webb stopped and wobbled in place at the sight of Sherman Dahl sitting atop his horse and staring at him from less than thirty feet away. “Uh-oh,” said Webb, his voice carrying a warning even to himself. Coming up the bank behind Webb, Monk Dupre bumped into him and stumbled to the side.

“Watch out, damn it!” Dupre cursed. But then he too saw the mounted figure sitting sideways across their trail. “Friend of yours?” he whispered sidelong to Abner Webb without taking his eyes off Sherman Dahl. “Because if he is, don't forget: I know every water stop, whorehouse and cantina twixt here and—”

“
Silencio!
” Corporal Luna shouted down at Dupre. Gigging his horse to one side to allow the rest of his men up the dry creek bank, Corporal Luna stared at the lone rider and waited until his last man had stepped his horse up over the edge of the bank and sidled it over near the others. “Steady, men,” Luna
purred in Spanish, watching his men spread out alongside him. Hands poised attentively on pistol butts. Rifles rested across laps in tense hands. Thumbs tightened across rifle hammers.

Sherman Dahl had also been waiting for all the
Federales
to appear up out of the creek bed. As soon as the last one rode up into sight, he called out to the corporal, “
Saludos, viajeros del compañeros.
” Then he smiled calmly, his hand resting on his rifle stock, the rifle lying across his lap and pointing straight at Corporal Luna's chest.

“Listen to this
loco gringo
,” Luna whispered in Spanish to the man nearest him. “He tries to say, ‘
Greetings, fellow travelers
' to us? As if this is some mindless game we play here?” He appeared astonished by Dahl's insolence. He looked around quickly, trying to understand why a lone rider would act this way. Then he settled a bit and took on a devil-may-care attitude himself, looking back at Sherman Dahl. “
Saludos
to you as well. What can I do for you this fine, clear morning,
por favor
?”

“I came to offer you a trade,” Dahl said, keeping his horse perfectly still beneath him. He nodded toward Abner Webb. “My friend there for something you value most highly.”

Corporal Luna perked up. “Oh? You have the machine rifle? You are willing to trade it for your
amigo
?” He cocked his head, looking Webb up and down. Then he grinned, enjoying the game, and said, “I have to tell you, he don't look so good, your
amigo.
I think I would be taking advantage of you.” The line of
Federales
stifled nervous laughter.

“Huh-uh.” Sherman Dahl shook his head slowly, “The machine rifle's not what I had in mind.”

“Oh, it's not?” Corporal Luna's expression turned cold and serious. “Then what is this thing of value
that you will trade me for your
amigo
?” He shrugged for his men's sake. “Go on, we are all listening.”

A ripple of laughter rose and fell among the
Federales.
But then they settled into tense silence, awaiting Dahl's words.

“Your lives,” Dahl said flatly. His thumb cocked the hammer back on his rifle as if for emphasis.

From within a cover of brush, Will Summers tightened his grip on the Gatling gun and said under his breath, “You have to admit, the schoolmaster doesn't beat around the bush.”

The corporal's face turned ashen at Dahl's words. But then he tried to keep calm, not let his men see the consternation running through his mind. He forced a stiff smile and waved his hand slowly at his men, signaling them to spread out. “You damn crazy
Americano
! Why do you play around like this? You know we spent the night looking for that big gun! Who do you people think you are, that you come here, keep my men up all night, then tell me you trade this man to me for
my life
!” He gave his men a quick glance, making sure they were ready as he cocked his hand slightly and prepared to make a grab for his holstered pistol. “You make me laugh! Ha ha! See how I laugh,
gringo
?”

“Yep, I see,” Sherman Dahl said grimly, seeing the corporal's hand make the slightest twitch toward his pistol. Dahl's rifle bucked across his lap. The shot lifted Corporal Luna from his saddle and slammed him sidelong into the man sitting next to him. Before the men could grasp what had just happened to the corporal, Dahl's pistol streaked upward in his right hand, firing as his left hand slung his rifle forward, levering up a fresh round.

“Get down, Webb!” Dahl shouted. His rifle fired a second behind his pistol. Two
Federales
flew from
their saddles. Abner Webb caught a glint of morning sunlight on the Gatling gun barrels sticking out of a dry stand of brush. He flattened against the ground as the big gun began its deadly song.

Monk Dupre was too stunned to even dive for cover. He stood frozen in place, his hands bound in front of him, his shoulders scrunched up as if to make him a smaller target. He stood wild-eyed on one foot, his other foot raised knee-high like some strange, frightened waterfowl. Shots screamed past him from both directions at once. His face formed a tortured scream, but the sound of it went unheard amid the solid pounding of gunfire.

As the last of the
Federales
fell and their spooked horses scattered, Abner Webb managed to leap up and catch a set of loose reins with his tied hands and run along, checking the horse down. By the time the horse stopped struggling, the Gatling gun had fallen silent. Will Summers turned loose of the smoking gun and leaped out from behind the brush in time to slow down a fleeing horse and divert it right into Sergeant Teasdale's hands. “Good Lord!” said Abner Webb, keeping the spooked horse under control as he looked around at men lying dead on the ground.

“Get armed and ready to ride,” said Sherman Dahl, punching spent shells from his Colt and replacing them. “Everybody between here and the hill country must be looking for the machine rifle.” He stepped down from his saddle and lifted a knife from his boot well. Abner Webb held his hands out. Dahl sliced through the rawhide strips binding the deputy's wrists together.

As Webb stepped away, rubbing his raw wrists, Monk Dupre held his hands out to Dahl, saying quickly, “Thank God you showed up when you did.
They would have slit our throats before the day was over.”

“Get out of here,” said Dahl, shoving Dupre away.

“Are you three all that's left?” asked Abner Webb, stepping over to the bodies on the ground. He picked up a loose pistol and checked it over, then tossed it aside and picked up another.

“So far,” said Sherman Dahl. “Hargrove died in the night. We haven't seen Cherokee Rhodes or Hayes or Daniels.” Dahl stooped down and picked up a bandoleer of ammunition, looked at it and dropped it to the ground.

“Edmund Daniels is dead,” Abner Webb said, wincing at the memory of it. “He died last night when this bunch come upon us. He was wounded bad…took a stand against them and gave his life to save mine.”

“Saved
your
life?” Sherman Dahl gave him a surprised look, then looked him up and down, noting the dried black blood down Webb's side, his lap and his left leg.

“That's right,” said Webb. “I couldn't believe it myself at first. But me and him did some talking before he died.” Webb hesitated for a second, then added, “I'm glad we got to.”

“I bet you are,” said Will Summers, stepping up beside him, leading the horse he'd just caught. “If I was you, I'd be careful how I told that story to people. It's going to be hard to believe you didn't kill him.”

Abner Webb bristled. “Don't say that even joking, Will! Daniels and I made peace. That's the truth, so help me!”

“All right then. Settle down, Deputy,” said Summers. “Speaking of killing—” He nodded at the knife
still in Dahl's hand. “While you've got your knife out, go ahead and stick this one before we leave.” He turned a cold stare at Monk Dupre.

“Whoa now, hang on!” said Dupre, taking a shaky step backward. “There's no need in that. Where will all this violence end? It sickens me, all the killing I've seen lately. Men who have no more regard for life than to—”

“Shut up, Dupre,” said Abner Webb, cutting him off. “The fact is, he rides with the Peltrys…says he knows where they hide out in the high country.”

“Dupre?” said Summers. “Monk Dupre? There's some money on your head…a few hundred dollars, as I recall.”

“No, you've mistaken me for another Monk Dupre,” said the worried outlaw. “I admit I've done some things I shouldn't have done, riding with the Peltrys, but no,
huh-uh.
” He shook his scraggly head. “There's no money on me. Believe me, I'd know it if there was.”

“I still think your head would look better in that bag with those two scalp hunters, Duckbill Grear and Andy Merkel,” said Will Summers, nodding toward the feed sack hanging from his saddle horn as Teasdale led their horses forward.

“Oh Jesus, no,” said Monk Dupre, looking at the outlines of the heads in the bag. “Is
that
them? Grear and Merkel?” His voice trembled.

“Yep,” said Summers. “They're a lot shorter than the last time you saw them.”

“I'm getting sick.” Dupre looked away from the bag, his face taking on a sour expression. “I—I can't hardly breathe here.” He turned his bound hands to his side. “Please cut me loose. Send me on my way. I swear you'll never see me again! I won't tell a soul I saw you out here.”

“He might be some use to us,” said Abner Webb. “It wouldn't hurt to keep him alive a while. If he crosses us, you can always bag him any time you feel like it.”

“That's right,” said Monk Dupre, talking fast. “Only that won't happen. So help me God, I won't cross yas. I'll lead you straight to the Peltry hideout. I'll ambush them with you…. Hell, I'll kill them both myself! Just say the word!”

“Can you keep him quiet?” Will Summers asked Abner Webb.

“I'll try,” said Webb.

“Then he's with us, schoolmaster,” Summers said to Sherman Dahl, “but keep his hands tied for a while.” He took his horse's reins from Teasdale and walked away with Abner Webb.

“You men won't be sorry,” said Monk Dupre.

Summers and Webb stepped in among the bodies of the
Federales
, searching for any canteens of water, weapons or ammunition they could use. “So you and Daniels got things straight between you before he died, huh?” asked Summers.

“Yeah, we did, Will. It was strange. He—he made me promise something before he died. I still don't know what to make of it.”

Summers stood up, lifting a belt full of .45 caliber pistol cartridges from around a dead man's shoulder and slinging it over his own. “Men say strange things before they die…. I never felt bound by anything a dead man asked of me,” said Summers.